


Letters From My Heart

by the_seaworthy_muffin



Series: Merthur Week 2020 Prompt Fills [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Banter, Cheesy Quotes, Chef Merlin, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, Grief/Mourning, Grocery Shopping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Personal Trainer Arthur Pendragon, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28256532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_seaworthy_muffin/pseuds/the_seaworthy_muffin
Summary: Arthur and Merlin, as horrible at talking Feelings as they both are, take turns comforting each other with the cheesiest quotes they can find. A 3+1 things fic.Written for Merthur Week 2020 Day 3 – “You’re hurt. Please, just let me heal it.” + Hurt/Comfort.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Merthur Week 2020 Prompt Fills [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2066679
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38
Collections: Merthur Week 2020





	Letters From My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This started out being a fic with Arthur comforting Medic!Merlin, then turned into something with Mafia Hitman!Arthur and mob brain Merlin, then turned into...... this. Very domestic, with huge dollops of h/c and emotionally repressed boys being tender and sweet to each other. To be honest, this turned out a lot less cracky than I'd expected it to be.  
> Warnings for mentions of illness&death (nothing graphic!), so if you're uncomfortable with this topic then you might want to veer away.  
> Hope you all enjoy!!  
> Also, not so sure I'm happy about the title, so title suggestions are always welcome. *:)*

1.

“Uther at the gym?” Merlin asks as soon as Arthur steps into their shared flat. Arthur shakes the wintry sludge off of his jacket, slinging it across their hideous flower-print sofa to dry.

“Yes.” He winces; his father at the gym is never a pretty sight. He’s always ready with an hour-long speech on how he was ‘wasting his good education on a frivolous whim just to throw barbells around like a little boy’, and he was never shy to do so in front of his customers. It’s pretty much become tradition for whoever closest to placate him with his favorite drink. (Blue Powerade, cool but not freezing, served in his treasured Camelot Kings cup.) “How did you know?”

“Hard not to when you go on and send me a whole string of unintelligible crying faces,” Merlin says, dry. His eyes are sympathetic but he doesn’t say much besides that, which is understanding: for all that Merlin is far kinder than Arthur will ever grow to be, neither of them are good at talking feelings, and they’ve reached a mutual agreement to knock off on the comforting-with-words part after a disastrous night with half a quart of beer and a wrecked dining table. “Here. I’ve made salmon pasta; it’s Morgana’s newest recipe. I know you love salmon with a passion.”

“Not a passion,” Arthur replies instantly, slouching down into his seat. Merlin smacks his knuckles with his spatula.

“Manners, young man! And go wash your hands; I can practically smell the rubber on them, and much as I am fond of you, I won’t stand for blasphemous under-minings of my food.”

“That’s not even a word,” Arthur grumbles, dragging his unwilling body out of their island chair. “And you sound like my grandmother. You know, the one that’s ninety years old.” Every single muscle in his upper body hurts, and Arthur has a niggling suspicion that the day’s stress has had something to do with it. _The hell_ ……

Later, after they’ve moved onto the sofa, immersing themselves in the cheesy old classics on the Hits channel, Merlin suddenly nudges Arthur with his foot. Then, in his driest, most deadpan tone:

“ _Other men, it is said, have seen angels, but I have seen thee and thou art enough_.”

Arthur chokes and sprays the remnant of his Powerade all over their cheap carpet. “What the bloody hell _was_ that?”

“George Moore.” Merlin looks at him with a twinkle in his eye, and though he’s clearly trying very hard not to smile, the twitching corners of his lips give his game right away. “I figured, since I’ve never been really good with words- when in doubt, consult those wiser, yes?”

“Please tell me you didn’t find that off of Wikipedia.”

Merlin glares at him in mock-affront. “No, of course not! Do keep up with the times. We’re talking twenty-first century here.”

“Oh, do shut up.” Arthur steps on Merlin’s foot. “I’m going to watch the telly.”

“I always endeavor to please.” Arthur can hear the smile in Merlin’s tone.

“Idiot,” Arthur grumbles, fond.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t actually feel all that bad anymore.

2.

“How’s Will?” Arthur’s voice comes floating out of their kitchen, and Merlin grimaces, bending down to untangle his shoelaces, which have mutated into a tangled knot of thread sometime during the wild dash towards the hospital. Merlin had nearly punched Will in the face once he’d found out that no, the injury hadn’t been life-threatening━ a month in a cast at most━ and that the whole bloody fiasco had only been wrought because Will had decided to jump off the local playground’s jungle gym in some wild end-of-term celebrations.

“Alright,” Merlin replies. “ _Need me at once_ , my arse. I’m never going to give that git free food ever again.”

For all of Merlin’s relieved posturing, he’d been bloody _terrified_ , afterimages of Will, seven and bleeding from his head _and god that much blood shouldn’t even be possible_ ’s rushing through his head at breakneck speeds. His breath is ragged, fingers trembling as he attempts to untangle the knots in his shoelaces.

Arthur emerges in the doorway. Backlit against the warm glow of their flat, the stray strand of hair sticking straight up from his head is only that much more visible, and there’s a smudge of tomato sauce sticking to his defined jaw. His eyes are red-rimmed- lack of sleep, probably; the noble idiot must have stayed awake all this time waiting for him. His socks don’t match, he’s wearing a dress-shirt with Merlin’s favorite pokemon pajamas, and all in all, it’s nearly the most disheveled Merlin’s ever seen him.

“I’ve made your favorite tuna bake,” Arthur says, and he’s so endearingly posh that it sounds more a demand to _come eat right this second_ than the thoughtful gesture it is. Merlin stifles a laugh.

“Ah, to be home again,” he says. Still slightly shaky, he straightens and starts towards the kitchen. The smell is heavenly- having a cook as a husband must have rubbed of somewhere along the way- and Merlin’s stomach, which hadn’t received any food since earlier this evening, growls eagerly. Food, then bed. Perfect. Merlin’s aching, abused body groans in approval.

Arthur’s fingers come to rest tentative on the junction of Merlin’s neck and shoulder. For all the years they’ve spent together, there’s still a faint awkwardness that lingers about when they’re aware that the other is vulnerable, almost as if they’re holding something in their hands that could drop, shatter, break at any given moment.

“Come have dinner,” Arthur says.

“It’s two,” Merlin replies, “In the _morning_. It might even count as breakfast somewhere.”

Arthur gives him a Look, and Merlin folds. “Alright. Alright, I’m coming.”

.

Merlin wakes up to a note tacked onto the headboard of his bed.

_Affection is when you see someone’s strengths; love is when you accept someone’s flaws._

It’s even yellow. And has a smiley face drawn onto it. Judging from the abysmal lack of quality, the artist is most probably Arthur.

“Please don’t tell me this was supposed to comfort me,” Merlin says incredulously over a bowl of generously honeyed porridge.

“What’s wrong with it?” Arthur protests, and his expression of mock-outrage is so good it would have fooled pretty much anyone but Merlin. Merlin, fortunately, happens to know Arthur much better than that.

“And I have no idea what I’m supposed to make of it, either. Are you trying to tell me you’re flawed? Because I hate to break this to you, Arthur, but I think I was pretty much aware of that.”

“No. It’s about Will, see?” Arthur leans over, a bit of stray porridge going to stick on the hem of his shirt. “He’s _flawed_ , because he gave you that false alarm and a horrible fright, but you haven’t ditched him anyways.” A short pause. “Though I can’t say I understand why.”

“ _Arthur._ ” Merlin gives him an admonishing glare. “Alright, spill: whose quote is it this time?”

“Bonnie Franklin.”

“And who may that actually be?”

“Someone far more important than you.”

“ _Oi!_ ”

“But really, someone has to keep up with traditions.”

“Alright,” Merlin says, giving a helpless little laugh. “I suppose I can accept that.”

3.

“I heard that Leon quit the gym.”

“I didn’t even tell you that.” Then, a split second’s pause later: “Lance?”

“Yes.” Merlin bites his lip. “He was a bit worried about you. What with your scowling at every single person who visited the gym, and wielding a dumbbell like a lethal weapon.”

“They could be lethal enough, if put in the right hands,” Arthur muses, insanely relieved that they’re not going to start talking _feelings_. Though he does wonder if he ought to be a bit worried that apparently they’re getting updates on each other’s lives through mutual friends now. Most certainly not #1 in most relationship handbooks. But this is them, and somehow they manage to make it work, and Arthur has no complaints about that.

“Don’t be absurd and get me that orange juice, right there.”

“You’re taller than me,” Arthur grumbles, but acquiesces anyway. He most certainly does not want to be shopping right now. He rather wants to go back home and curl miserably on their horrid floral-print couch with a good large pint, but because Merlin has a strange philosophy that moping never did anyone any good, here they are, grocery shopping on a Monday night.

The thing is, Arthur can understand wanting to leave to work elsewhere. They may be best mates, but Leon’s a qualified physical trainer in his own right, and friendship doesn’t give Arthur blanket rights over Leon’s work life. Still, the _reason_ is what hurts more than anything.

_Twenty-first century. No more outdated charity work. Revenue. Seizing opportunities……._

As-bloody-if. Arthur still thinks running discounted PT sessions for veterans is more than worth all that _profit_ , thank you. Still.

The drive back home is a quiet one, their old Bentley laden down with packages of quince and spinach and cream and a thousand other assorted spices Merlin insists Morgana will need back at the restaurant. Merlin keeps the radio running, a low, comforting noise, settling comfortably in with the rumble of the engine.

“Want to hear the quote of the day?” Merlin says, casual as you please. There’s a passing glint in his eyes, though, that says he isn’t entirely messing around with him. Merlin, Arthur knows, for all his horrible inefficacy at saying comforting things and social awkwardness, would never be so cruel as to make fun of Arthur when he’s hurt.

“Might as well come out with it,” Arthur says. “I happen to know that you’re going to pester me nonstop until I let you say your piece.”

“You make me sound like my great-grandmother. Anyway, listen up: _‘Your smile is like a sunrise, it sets the clouds on fire. But just being with you, is what I always admire.’_ ”

Arthur struggles up a little from where he’d been squished against the window. Merlin’s eyes are on the road before them, carefully focused in the way only someone who’s trying very hard to stave off eye contact can be.

“Merlin,” he says, “Please tell me this isn’t your own way of saying you’re proud of me no matter what.”

“Alright,” Merlin replies, tone completely deadpan. “It wasn’t.”

“Who was it this time?”

“Francine Chiar.”

“Never even heard of- Merlin, have you been searching the _internet_ for things to quote at me?”

“Heavens, _no_ ,” Merlin says vehemently, but a telltale blush is creeping across his high cheekbones. Dark lashes flutter down to rest on his cheeks. “Did I tell you what an inflated opinion you have of yourself? I just happened to be looking around, and came across it, is all.”

“Of course you did,” Arthur replies gleefully, in the most drily sarcastic tone he can muster.

Still, he can’t deny the slight warmth that unfurls somewhere deep in his belly, and by the time they get back to their flat, he feels the slightest, tiniest bit ever.

+1.

Hunith looks so deceptively small against the blue sheets of the hospital, hands gathered peacefully against her chest. Her skin is pale as Merlin’s, almost translucent under the glaring lights, face slackened and peaceful in rest.

Arthur thinks of the cheerful, ruddy-cheeked woman who had ruffled his hair and baked him chocolate-chip cookies against his direst protests, wielding broom and spatula alike in deadly precision, and bile threatens to rise in his throat.

“She passed away quietly,” Merlin says, tone forcefully calm. “It’s all we could have hoped for, isn’t it? The doctors say she wasn’t in any pain.”

“Yes,” Arthur says, because- what can he say, in the face of such loss? Merlin’s face is a carefully constructed mask, held together by sheer stubbornness and force of will, and his fingers are clenching the side of the bed so tight that the veins show. A tear slips down Merlin’s cheek, and Arthur flexes his fingers, wanting to hold, hug, comfort, yet somehow unable to.

It’s almost like they’ve gone back to their first meeting, an invisible barrier stretching between them. And Arthur doesn’t have any idea what to do.

He leaves Merlin to say his goodbyes, and later, drives a drawn, eerily quiet Merlin back to his flat. His hands, which sometimes speak louder than his words ever had, are quiet, dormant, and for the first time the silence between them almost feels suffocating.

.

It takes a while for the smell of disinfectant and the lingering shroud of death to dissipate, but after that, it’s back to life as normal again.

It seems almost surreal, going to the gym, unlocking the door, correcting peoples’ stances with gestures and fleeting touches here and there- when now Arthur knows that there’s someone who’s never going to come back again, someone who will never be able to bake cookies, or scold Arthur for subsisting on chicken breast and protein shakes, or pinch Merlin’s cheeks and call him her dear little boy.

Merlin is surprisingly _fine_ , and that worries Arthur.

Merlin breaks down the night they get back to the flat, sobbing against Arthur’s shoulder and mouthing _she didn’t deserve it, she didn’t deserve any of it_ , and lets Arthur draw him into his arms and keep him close. Illness- it’s long, and drawn-out, and cruel, and for all that it’s given them enough time to say their goodbyes it isn’t a fate Arthur ever would have wished upon one as kindhearted and genuinely _good_ as Hunith.

The next day, he’d headed off to the restaurant with a strained grin and forced bounce in his step, and never spoken of the issue ever again.

The thing is, Arthur has a Merlin watch-list.

It may sound creepy, and alright, it probably is, but Merlin is an emotionally-repressed idiot who will run himself dry before he admits that anything is wrong and someone has to keep a careful eye on him. Arthur crosses off excessive humming, takeout, tapping his foot against the floor, splurging on bath products, and long nights at the Rising Sun in rapid succession. A week later, he frowns down at the list and tries to ignore the sinking feeling that’s surfaced in his gut.

It’s the first time since Arthur has come to know Merlin that the entirety of the list has been crossed off.

And Arthur is worried.

.

“Alright, look,” Morgana says. “I know you two have whatever absurd macho posturing shite where you don’t talk about your Feelings going on, but you have to talk to Merlin.”

“It’s not that,” Arthur says. “It’s just that we’re both utter pants at comforting each other. And- _I don’t know what to do._ ”

Arthur has been utterly competent all his life, and the thought terrifies him, but it’s also unfortunately true, and that’s worse than anything else. Because this time around, he doesn’t think bad cheesy quotes from the internet and warm homemade dinners will really cut it.

“He’s like MacGyver on drugs,” Morgana says in her best listen-to-me voice. “He doesn’t listen to anything the customers say, and I think he’s rigged our stovetop to explode on demand. Or something. He nearly gave our oldest customer food poisoning via chili oil yesterday. So help me god, _talk_ to him, Arthur. I think you’re the only one who can.”

“I think you’re putting too much faith in me,” Arthur says, hating how small his voice sounds. Morgana’s eyes are softer than he’s ever seen them, understanding sparking in their depths.

“No,” Morgana replies, quiet. “I don’t think quite think so.”

.

Confronting Merlin about something like this, Arthur realizes, is something he can’t plan for. He sketches out plans in his planner and then scratches them out, because it just feels _wrong_ , like- like treating Merlin like some malfunctioning toaster rather than the person he is.

So Arthur sets a deadline for himself- _before the month is out, in the very least_ \- and spends his time alternately pacing the flat and worrying himself sick. Merlin must be eating less, or that state of hyperactivity he’s been trapped in this past month must have been doing _things_ to him, because he’s grown worryingly pale and his clothes hang off him as if they’re a size too big.

December thirty-first rolls around surprisingly fast, and midnight finds Arthur and Merlin curled together on the sofa, watching a rerun of _the Sword in the Stone_.

“Morgana’s worried about you,” Arthur says, glancing over to gauge Merlin’s reaction. Merlin tenses, visibly retreating into himself.

“Well. She shouldn’t have. I’m fine- see? I mean.” He gulps. “It’s not as if we hadn’t known it was coming.”

Arthur doesn’t _see_ , because Merlin looks terrible, eyes rimmed red and bloodshot, the hollow under his defined cheekbones more worrying than enticing, smile strained and drawn, a slight tremble in the tips of his fingers.

“Merlin, _look_ at me,” Arthur says, grabbing Merlin’s arms and stilling them. Merlin’s eyes widen; Arthur curses to himself- he knows he’s shorter than Merlin but also a whole lot broader, and he’s made it a point over the years never to use his strength against Merlin.

“Arthur, _let me go_.”

“No. Listen to me.” Arthur clenches his teeth; he hates seeing Merlin like this. He wants to curse and punch something and stick his earbuds in and play the loudest, most obnoxious death-metal songs he can find just so he has something to rage about. But he can’t let this go on, not anymore, and if Arthur is the only one left to do this then so be it.

“Merlin. You’re hurt. Let me heal you.”

Arthur’s voice trembles a little towards the end. It’s horrible and cheesy and not smooth whatsoever, but it’s the truth. Arthur lets Merlin’s wrists go, leaning back into the couch.

“And whose quote is it this time around?” Merlin asks, a last brave attempt at brevity.

“No-ones,” Arthur says. “That one’s all mine.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, then hiccoughs, and tears start running down his face, hot and fast. He brings up a hand to scrub against his eyes, hard, but once they’ve started, the tears don’t stop, and Arthur holds Merlin against him and lets him break as far as he needs to.

Breaking- is not weakness, Arthur realizes now.

Because they’ll always be ready to start building back again.

So he tightens his grip against Merlin’s too-skinny waist, and they sit together until tears and snot dry on Merlin’s face, and Merlin cracks a small, genuine smile and asks Arthur for a tissue.

“I smell horrible,” Merlin says. “And my face is disgusting. I bet I’d run away from my reflection if I ever came across it.”

Merlin’s way of saying _thank-you_ , Arthur knows, so he hands him a tissue without any further commentary. Merlin takes it and blows his nose, hard.

“Should be glad I put up with you,” Arthur grumbles, just because he can. Merlin nudges him, and when he brings himself to look back at him, the smile Merlin gives him is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” Merlin says. “I think I really am.”

And Arthur knows that they’re going to be alright after all.

.

_Fin._


End file.
